


I Wanna Take You To A

by tchaikfour



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tchaikfour/pseuds/tchaikfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Axis spend a night out on the town. In a magnificent disaster of misfortune for Germany, they just happen to end up at a gay bar. It just happens to be somewhere he's been before. And some acquaintances of his just happen to show up. <br/>If anything, it'll definitely be a night to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanna Take You To A

Germany knows something isn’t right when he feels the taxi jolt over a familiar bump in the road. _This is the turn-off to Cocktails,_ he realises, his cheeks going pink. _There’s no way I’m going to Cocktails._

“Um, you guys,” he says nervously, “Where are we going?”

Japan turns around in the front seat. “There’s a club that my friend told me about,” he answers. Germany crosses his fingers. _Please don’t say it’s called –_ “Cocktails.” _Shit._

“Oh, Germany, don’t look so worried! It’s my first time out clubbing too!” Italy gazes out the window happily, entranced by the brightly coloured lights. “Do you think there’s going to be lots of dancing? I love dancing!”

Germany splutters with disbelief and clears his throat, replying, “Um, yes.” _There’s going to be a lot more than dancing, and this definitely isn’t my first time. In fact, I used to be kind of a regular at this particular club for all the wrong reasons._

He looks down at his outfit and curses under his breath. _Why did I have to choose_ this _shirt?_ There are several tiny rips in his T-shirt, faded marks of spilled alcohol and a barely noticeable white smudge that was probably Dominic – _SHIT. SHITSHITSHITSHIT._ Trying to smooth down his jeans, he mentally reprimands himself for not wearing something more conservative, maybe re-styling his hair, joining a monastery...

It’s too late. The taxi is pulling up at the corner, lights are flashing, and Italy is yanking him out of the vehicle and dragging him towards the entrance.

He doesn’t need to explain that they don’t have to queue up if they’re with him, or that his old ‘friends’ can be a little bit crazy. It becomes fairly obvious when they enter the club and a cheer goes up, the passing waiter smacks him on the ass, and Hans runs forward yelling, “Well, fuck me with a frying pan! The flirt is back in town!”

 

Japan’s eyebrows cannot go any higher as a crowd of young men in tight T-shirts slam into them and drive them over to a table. “The flirt?” he quips, brushing off a muscled arm. Another slides around Germany’s neck and adorns it with a multicoloured lei. Various hands push drinks at them, which they take half-heartedly.

“Don’t say a word, either of you,” Germany says through gritted teeth. He’s managed to spot five ex-boyfriends, ten one-night stands and at least fifteen drinking buddies in the time it’s taken them to get to the table. _This night officially can’t get any worse,_ he thinks.

A blond boy he remembers from a particularly pretentious clique sidles up to Italy, runs a finger down his shoulder, and purrs, “Hey there, sugar. Top or bottom?’ Germany freezes. _Okay, yeah, it can._

He turns around on his stool, flicking the finger away as Italy’s expression turns confused. “Peter, leave him alone,” he growls. “He’s new.”

“Ooh, fresh blood,” Peter giggles, and locks eyes with Italy, running his tongue over his lips. “My favourite.”

Germany glares at him. “I said, leave him alone. He’s with me.”

A silence falls over the small crowd around their table.  “Oh. My. God.” Hans is stunned. “He actually brought somebody.”

It quickly becomes clear to Germany what that must have sounded like. “No, not like that!” he stammers. “He’s my friend.”

Hans raises his eyebrows, looking bored, and calls, “Twenty bucks says he’s more than that by tomorrow morning!” A chorus of agreeing shouts goes up from the men around them, and Germany hides his face in his hands, groaning. In the two years since he last went to this club, he thought his reputation would have faded. _Obviously not,_ he thinks grimly, and grabs the nearest drink he can find.

 

Italy is beaming at the guys around him, overjoyed by the sudden attention. Japan looks astonished. “I’m sorry about this, Honda,” Germany mutters to him. “We can always go – what?” He follows the line of Japan’s pointing finger to the middle of the dance floor, where a figure is dancing wildly with everyone around him. _Sure, a guy’s drunk and dancing. He’s seen that on TV, at parties...why would that shock him?_ He squints at the slim body gyrating between the shapes of other dancers, and he has to stop himself from bursting out laughing when he realises it’s France.

“I didn’t know France went dancing too!” shouts Italy, grabbing hold of Germany’s arm. “We should go dance with him!”

Japan’s face is still white. “I think he already has someone to dance with, Italia,” he says blankly. Germany frowns, confused, and looks back through the crowd to catch sight of France. _And there he is,_ he thinks to himself, _thrusting around like a bad stripper, tangled up with some random dancer. Oh, wait, that’s England. OH WAIT. THAT’S ENGLAND._

He watches in utter disbelief as England grabs onto France’s shoulders in a drunken hug and laughs like a madman. _Well, they’re definitely having fun._ “Er,” he says to Japan, “when did this happen?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I saw it coming,” Japan answers, eyes glued to the couple in shock.

Italy’s eyes are twin moons. “Germany, come and dance with me!” He takes Germany’s hands and pulls him out of his chair, generating cheers and whistles from their posse.

“Italy, what are you doing?” he shouts, trying to yank his hands free. Italy ignores his attempts and places them on his waist, reaching up to curl his own around Germany’s neck. “Get off me!”

_Hang on a second here_ , says a voice in his head. _What’s stopping you? For how long have you wanted to do this? You know the only reason you don’t touch him is that somebody judgmental might see you. And guess where you are?_ His eyes widen. “Italy...” he begins, but then the song starts and any doubts he might have are swept away with the silence.

It’s a relatively slow song, one he doesn’t know. The words pulse faintly over the noise of the other dancers, and Italy’s smile is shining at him like sunlight. He chuckles, and steps closer.

 

“You know,” Hans says to Japan, misty-eyed over the edge of his shot glass, “He never looked at me like that the entire day we were dating.”

Japan turns to him, incredulous. “They’re not together...are they?” he replies.

A guy with chocolate-coloured skin and a pink Mohawk joins them at the table, planting a kiss on Hans’ cheek and chiming, “No, but you can tell they will be.”

The waiter takes away their drinks and brings the pink-haired boy a Pina Colada. Japan laughs. “How?”

“I’m Nolan, by the way. For one thing, look at how close they are.” Nolan grins and points to the lopsided pair, waving his finger across the thin space between their bodies.

“Number two, they haven’t taken their eyes off each other since the song started. Three, Ludwig wouldn’t let anyone touch that guy, right from the beginning. And finally, unless you’re straight, you come here because there’s a hundred-percent possibility that you’re gonna get laid.”

He leans back in his chair, satisfied. Japan squints at Germany. _Can it really be possible?_ His eyes travel to England and France, who are staring each other down with hungry eyes. _If that is, then of course it can._

“Speaking of which...” murmurs Hans, shooting Nolan a look that makes him giggle. They wave goodbye and sidle towards the dancefloor hand in hand. Japan sighs and orders another mineral water. _It’s gonna be a long night._

France has had a lot of girlfriends, and nearly twice as many boyfriends, but right now in his haze of alcohol and loud music he’s fairly sure none of them were as hot as England.

Kicking open the bathroom door, he vaguely remembers being shocked to find him here, half-believing his excuse that he was spying on somebody, and pulling him onto the dancefloor like he was anyone else. He has a faint recollection of song after song after song, losing his shirt in a momentary mosh pit, getting air-kissed by at least ten guys after mentioning he was French, and dancing like a drugged-up teenager. But strangely enough he remembers everything clearly from the moment England kissed him.

It was in the middle of that song he liked, and he could have sworn he’d heard Italy’s voice above the crowd. They’d been dancing fast and crazy, and then England stopped and stared at him, breathing hard, and suddenly they were kissing.

He remembers this constantly, the heat of the memory pulsing in his head, even as England is bucking up against the counter and the mirror is shivering against their weight. With every moment he is able to discover something new about his half-adversary: _England is an extremely good kisser, England is dirty whether he likes it or not, England makes a very appealing noise when he gets a love-bite, why didn’t I bother to find these out before?!?_ He can feel the thin fabric of their jeans pressing together; he wonders how much longer he can last, and fumbles for any buttons he can find.

“ _Excusez-moi, madame, pouvez-vous me dire où est la gare_?” breathes England, pressing his hands against the soap dispensers.

France leans back. “What the hell?”

England shrugs. Gasping and stumbling over his words, he replies, “It’s the only French I know, just _shut up and fuck me_.”

Everything is fast and slick and blurry, and all he can register is that England’s trousers are yanked apart and he _wants_ this like he’s never wanted anything before. It’s always been him by himself, flitting from lover to lover like none of them matter, but this is England. This is the impossible conquest, the ex-pirate, the one he’s sure he needs.

The lights flicker in the dingy bathroom, and even though he’s on his knees by now he’s chuckling at how appalled sober England would be at the state of this place. The floor is stained and grimy but it’s a place, a quiet location, it’s anywhere. A small part of him realises that England will regret this in the morning, but he’s waited for this for so long that he’ll take whatever he can get.

England moans at the first instant of touch, his legs melt and his hands reach down and stroke along France’s jaw, and France wonders if he’s been waiting for this too.

 

“Germany, why don’t you want to dance?” Italy’s voice floats into his ear, plaintive and adorable. Sighing, Germany straightens his chair legs and takes his hand. It’s been an hour since they arrived and already he’s tired. _God,_ he thinks. _I’ve really lost it._

“I’m sorry, Italia,” he groans. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Italy tilts his head to the side and leans forward, a nervous smile playing on his lips. “I can give you something to wake you up,” he whispers. Out of the corner of his eye, Nolan is giving him a thumbs-up.

Germany’s head snaps up. _Oh, fuck. What did they give him? There’s no way I’m taking anything tonight. I can’t believe they took advantage of him._ “Sorry, I don’t do drugs,” he replies flatly.

Laughing, Italy smiles wider. “Oh, silly Germany! It’s not drugs!” he exclaims. His eyes are shining as he leans even closer and says softly, “It’s this.”

It takes Germany a full second to realise that Italy is kissing him. Two seconds to realise all that accompanies it: that Italy likes him, that Italy wants to kiss him, that he has dreamed about this so many times, and that rainbows may have just exploded behind his eyelids.

He kisses Italy back, pulling him down onto the chair closest to his own. When Italy pulls away, he is smiling from ear to ear. “ _Ti amo, Germania,_ ” he says happily.

Germany smiles back. “ _Ich liebe dich,_ ” he replies. “Dance with me.” He stands up, pulling his best friend as close as he possibly can, and leads him onto the dancefloor.

Nolan and Peter are sniffling in the corner. “That was so beautiful,” blubbers Peter. “I would screw that brunette in a heartbeat, you know, if Ludwig wouldn’t kick my arms off.”

“I know, honey bear, I know.” Nolan passes him a tissue, and they smile like proud parents as Italy and Germany begin to dance.

 

_So it’s a Saturday night and you’re down on your luck._

_Brother Russia’s not answering your calls, the ring you bought him is lying in a puddle outside your house, and it doesn’t look like you’re going to become one with him after all. You feel like crying, like eating a whole block of chocolate, like giving up on the world and punching your pillows with despair. But life’s taught you that what you want is sometimes the opposite of what you need, so you dress yourself in silk and false eyelashes and go out on the town._

_The first club you find is noisy and bright, packed with dancing guys. You don’t think anything of this as you order a drink until you look around and realise that they’re all dancing_ together _._ Well, that might not be such a bad thing, _you think. You kind of need a break from straight couples, since every one you see reminds you of Ivan and whatever whore he’s dating these days. And you know that if you bump into a friend the word will spread and everyone will call you a lesbian, but it’s a Saturday night and you’re lonely, second-best, and bored. You feel like living a little._

_Within fifteen minutes you’re on the dancefloor, linking arms with everyone. You’re having so much fun that you hardly think about why you came here; but then a song comes on and it reminds you so much of him that you have to leave the crowd._

_Sniffling, trying not to weep mascara, you stumble over to the corner to cry and trip over a girl people-watching near the back exit. She grabs hold of your shoulders and steadies you on your high heels, and asks you for your name._

_You look up and notice how pretty she is, even under the blurry layer of your slight drunkenness. Light brown hair, curled over her shoulders, and full lips whose smile casts a glow over her sequin-striped dress. Not like any of the other girls here, with their cropped multicoloured hairstyles and neon plaid. She’s beautiful. You can’t stop looking._

Natalia _, you tell her. She smiles and says,_ Elizaveta. _Her voice is like spices, like a sea. You’re sure you’ve seen her somewhere before, but you can’t remember where. Maybe she’s one of Russia’s friends._

_At the very thought of him, you’re hiccupping ugly tears. Her hands brush your back, caring, caressing, and she drives you over to a table and sits you down with a handful of napkins to dry your eyes. You tell her your story and his story and how you don’t know what you want. She listens without judging, and when you’ve finished she nods thoughtfully, leans in and kisses you._

_Her fingers fan through your hair. She’s more beautiful than anyone you’ve ever seen, and somehow you just_ know _she’s gonna fix your broken heart._ Ivan who? _is the last thing that burns in your mind, before your arms find their way tight around her and you’re overcome by something you never realised you were missing._

 

_*_

_  
_

The morning light is soft through the front windows of Cocktails. _Oh God, where am I?_ Germany forces his eyes open. A groan escaping his throat and an ache starting to pulse through his limbs, he recognises the black floor of the club he knows so well. The memories start to come back in slivers. _Japan brought me to Cocktails, and France was there, and I didn’t get into any fights that I can remember._ He sits up and shifts his hand, and looks down to find his fingers threading through bright auburn hair.

Italy.

More memories, stronger ones, course through his head. Countless butterfly kisses, laughing and smiling, curling up on the floor at four in the morning so he could hold him as they slept. His cheeks burn red, and he looks down at whatever he’s wearing. _T-shirt, jeans, someone else’s shoes._ _At least I’m clothed._

Germany looks down at the boy lying beside him and relief floods over his mind. “I didn’t sleep with him,” he whispers, as if he’s afraid that his old, wild self will hear him and laugh his ass off at the impossibility. _I visited my stupid, reckless past with the most beautiful, naive, inexperienced boy I know, and I didn’t do anything stupid._ Pride and happiness wash over him and he smiles, reaching over to sweep Italy’s hair out of his eyes.

 

The bathroom floor is cold and smeared with countless shoe marks. England wakes up bound to a warm body he vaguely remembers kissing. France’s eyes open before him, and everything makes less sense than it has for a while. “F-Francis?” he mumbles, trying to blink away his hangover. “Oh my God, did we...”

France smiles sadly. “If that was my only chance, I guess I’m okay with – ” His words are cut short when England leans forward and gives him the softest, sweetest kiss he’s ever had. _I must be dreaming.  This is a dream. Why does this have to be a dream?_

When they break away, England feels like he’s flying. “Darling, why the hell didn’t I marry you when you asked?” he murmurs, and the way France’s eyes light up takes him higher. Then he looks down. “Oh my God,” he squeaks, this time in a completely different manner. “Where are we, love, and why is it so filthy?”

Rolling his eyes, France grins. _Yeah. I’m definitely not dreaming._

Belarus is dreaming of soft skin and a curtain of hair, and Hungary is lying on top of her when she wakes up. She rubs her eyes and smiles weakly. “That was fun,” she breathes.

“More than fun,” chuckles Hungary, rolling off her and onto the satin sheets. “I think we scared the neighbours a little.”

Belarus frowns. “We’re at your house?”

“No, minxtress. We’re at _yours_.”

A horrible realisation dawns on her as she sits up and Hungary lets go of her hand. “Oh no,” she mutters. “Oh no, no, no.” She scrambles out of bed and drags on a dressing gown seconds before Russia knocks on her door.

She flings the door open and yells, “Hello, big brother!”

Russia smiles genially, thinking to himself that sometimes she’s not that bad after all. “Good morning, Natalia,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

A familiar voice snorts and says, “You could say that.” He peers through the doorway and almost drops his cup of coffee as Hungary slinks towards Belarus and wraps an arm around her waist. It makes even less sense that she’s not wearing any clothes.

“Elizaveta?” he splutters.

“Hello, Ivan,” she says with a smirk. “Natalia, shall we finish what we started?” Russia watches in shock as his little sister giggles and runs a finger over Hungary’s shoulder. _When did this happen?_

Belarus is overcome by the electricity of the kiss even before she pushes the door shut, but in the back of her mind it registers that Russia looked kind of...jealous. She smiles to herself and falls back onto the sheets, realising with a start that this is the first time in three years that she didn’t dream about her brother.

 

Italy opens his eyes and suddenly he’s staring up at Germany’s smile. “Germany,” he begins, “I had the most wonderful dream. I got to spend the whole day helping you, and I was so happy! And then we had a gigantic bowl of pasta, and...” He trails off, glancing at his rumpled clothes. “Germany, where are we?”

“You’re with me, Italy,” Germany murmurs, unable to believe his luck. “I’ll take care of you.”

Beside them, Nolan and Peter wake up in a mostly naked tangle. “Aww, isn’t that just the sweetest thing?” coos Nolan, stretching out of the embrace. “And to think we almost didn’t go along with Alfie’s plan.”

Germany’s head snaps up. “WHAT?”

“Hahahahaha!” A voice he knows all too well floats in over the roaring in his head. He looks up to see America standing in the entrance of the club, glowing with triumph. The realisation crashes down on him, bringing mortification and anger. Italy grabs his hand.

“I knew it! I knew that if I told China to make Japan bring you back here, you’d make a big slutty fool of yourself and I’d have way embarrassing pics to show the others!” America shouts eagerly. “Nolan, Peter, hand them over!”

“Uh...” begins Nolan, scratching his head. “He didn’t actually do anything particularly OMG-worthy.”

Peter looks up from his hand mirror and adds, “Yeah. It’s kinda disappointing, but also kinda hot and really, really cute. Win-win!”

America’s face is frozen. “You mean, he...didn’t...act like a total whore?”

Looking up, Germany gives him a terse nod. “Sorry to ruin your propaganda, America, but...” He gazes at Italy, who is now sitting beside him. “I’m not really into that kind of thing anymore. My heart belongs to _him_.” Italy smiles and kisses him, and for the moment nothing else matters.

“Dude, PDA alert!” whines America, but he knows he’s been beaten. He wrings his hands and sighs, saying, “Well, at least things can’t get any weirder.”

“Oh, look what we have here!” coos France, strolling into the room hand in hand with England. He smirks at the scene, ignoring England’s horrified gasp and attempt to bury his head in his chest. “ _Non, non,_ darling,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Alfred’s here,” England hisses, turning bright red.

“So? We’ll give him something to yell about. Oh, little Italy, I’m so proud of you!”

America is starting to hyperventilate. He clenches his fists, trying to ignore the complete and utter backfiring of his plan. “WHY THE HELL IS EVERYBODY GAY?!?” he finally screeches, throwing his palms in the air.

“Uh, hel- _lo?_ ” says Peter. “Have you never been to this place before?”

That appears to be explanation enough for everyone else, and without another word America storms out the door to mourn the loss of his magnificent plan.

“Well, you all appear to have had a good night.” Everybody turns to look at the speaker, and Germany’s eyebrows shoot up in horror. “I, on the other hand,” says Japan, rubbing off the lipstick on his face and adjusting the rainbow leis duct-taped to his hips, “cannot exactly say the same for myself.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've toyed with the idea of uploading this for at least a year, and I finally got around to it. Dedicated to T the magnificent beta, with tanti baci from Nolan and Peter.


End file.
